


He Wishes the Sun Would Go Away

by Birdbitch



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1380202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdbitch/pseuds/Birdbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's an apology of sorts for the behaviors of last night. It doesn't make it any easier, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Wishes the Sun Would Go Away

**Author's Note:**

> This, like most of my work, is crossposted to Tumblr. I never got around to actually posting here so it's about a year old.

He wishes the sun would go away.

It isn’t that he has a hangover—he doesn’t drink, has never drank, will never drink—but he spent too much time dealing with people who were drunk last night and the headache that pounds behind his eyes is enough to make him wish he still had the Percocet from when he had his wisdom teeth removed. He has an 8 AM class. His alarm clock is too loud. He is never going out on a Thursday again—which is what he says every Friday morning and promptly forgets the following Wednesday.

From the bunk below him, Combeferre is groaning about needing to shut the alarm clock off, and he knows he should just get up and do it, but he can’t will himself out of bed. Maybe he’s getting sick. If there’s one thing Enjolras has, it’s an endless supply of will. When he doesn’t move, frozen to the mattress, he feels Combeferre move, hears the patter of feet on the linoleum floor as he shuts off the alarm clock. A head pokes up from below and then moves around, and Combeferre is climbing up to his bunk to investigate.

“Are you alright? Have you even ever missed a morning class before?”

“I’m tired, Combeferre.”

It’s strange, because he would never in a million years admit that before now. He must be sick. But it’s true—he’s too tired, too destroyed from the previous night, to even think about moving. Combeferre knows that much, at least. He seems to contemplate climbing into the bed completely and laying next to Enjolras—it’s something that usually brings Enjolras comfort, just to have a friend nearby—but he changes his mind and goes back down the ladder.

“Should I ask Joly to stop by? He’d probably have something for you, if you needed it.”

“No, no. He’ll assume the worst and then diagnose me with terminal cancer via WebMD. I just need to sleep. I’ll be fine by noon.” He pulls his covers over his head and is about to drift off when finally Combeferre speaks again.

“Did something happen last night with Grantaire?” It’s soft and gentle and makes Enjolras want to cry because, yes, yes, something did happen, something always happens with Grantaire. It’s become like second nature to assume that something will happen.

“He hates me,” he answers, voice muffled from the blankets. “He always has and always will and I don’t know why he insists on coming to the meetings. It doesn’t matter.”

Combeferre doesn’t reply, and that’s for the best because Enjolras is in no mood to argue. He hears Combeferre getting dressed, an “I’ll bring you breakfast,” and then the door closing behind his roommate. It was just teasing, as Grantaire always teases. It was teasing and Enjolras snapped at him and things got mean too quickly and he’s tired; he just wants to be liked. He wishes his face didn’t go half as red as it does whenever Grantaire makes one of his comments, wished he could react in some way that was just as joking as the others do, but instead he gets defensive and scared and it’s all he can do to shoot him down.

Hell, if Grantaire didn’t hate him before, he surely hates him now.

He can’t fall back to sleep, of course, though he doesn’t move from under the covers. He’ll email his professors later. A part of him wants to apologize—“I knew it was a joke, I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that, I shouldn’t have attacked you like that—” but he’s too stubborn and the worry in his gut prevents him from so much as looking at his phone, never mind sending a text to Grantaire. It’s just that sometimes he gets too fired up and doesn’t actually think about what he’s saying, and a lot of time, his words are just as cutting as a knife. He’s been doing it since he was seven and still hasn’t figured out how not to.

He lays in bed for at least an hour before finally moving, needing a shower so hot that it scalds him. In the other room of the suite, Feuilly and Joly have already left for their classes, and it seems that only he’s left at the dorms. He goes to the bathroom and turns on the shower, lets the fog steam up the entire room before climbing in. It burns, turns his skin bright red, but he needs it, doesn’t think it’s half as hot as it should be. It beats down on his back and he stands exhausted under the spray until he finally works up the nerve to wash himself. His hair is getting too long; he might ask Jehan to cut it, but that might involve running into Grantaire as the two are roommates. He tries not to think about anything other than the water and the heat and how his eyes are fogging up.

As he’s leaving the shower after what must have been half a century, there’s a loud, insistent knocking at the door to the suite. He groans—if he didn’t have the energy to get out of bed, he certainly doesn’t have the energy to deal with people—but wraps a towel around his waist and goes to open it anyways.

Grantaire surprises him, as he always does.

“They’re in class right now,” Enjolras says, and he starts to close the door, but Grantaire stops him.

“That’s not why I’m here.” Grantaire tries to keep his eyes from traveling Enjolras’s body and it’s a very good effort, but it’s hard not to let them wander. “We need to talk.”

“I don’t know what about. You’ve never listened to me before.” And there it is again; the curtness, the need to push away and to stay distanced.

“That’s not true. I’m always listening, even if I don’t agree with it.” Grantaire sighs and looks at his feet. His boots are muddy, and traveling upwards, his pants are wrinkled and his belt is done wrong and his shirt buttons are all in the wrong holes. He’s a mess. He’s a mess that Enjolras can’t help but be attracted to despite everything. “Please. Can we talk? I brought you coffee.”

Enjolras swallows. “Combeferre said he’d bring me breakfast.”

“He got caught up with one of the professors who wants him to be a TA and asked me if I’d make a run over here. Please?”

“Let me get dressed.” He closes the door on Grantaire and thinks about not opening it again, but that would be too cruel, too unnecessary. He retreats to his room, pulls on clean underwear and clean pants and a clean undershirt and a clean button down and a sweater that belongs to Combeferre and even goes through the effort of brushing his hair a little bit and putting on socks. He thinks that Grantaire might even leave during that time and is surprised when he comes back and the man is still standing there with his Starbucks coffee—probably a Raspberry Latte, because everybody knows Enjolras’s usual at this point—and the newspaper.

He frowns and steps to the side. “Well. Come in then.”

Grantaire doesn’t move though. “I’d rather we do this here, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t care.”

He’s almost surprised when Grantaire lets out a despaired cry. “That’s the thing—you always say you don’t care, when it’s so obvious that you do! Enjolras, I came here to apologize, but I can’t even when you just—do you even care if I apologize? Would you even care if I just disappeared from your life forever?”

Enjolras remains silent, watching Grantaire and unsure of how he should respond. There are a million things he wants to say but it feels like he can’t say any of them. Grantaire pulls this face and looks down and around and like he might cry, and it occurs that maybe he doesn’t hate him nearly as much as Enjolras assumed he did. He still can’t speak.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Grantaire says finally. “Here’s the coffee. I’ll see you around. Or not. I guess. I guess I don’t…” He swallows hard and closes his eyes. “I guess I just don’t care.”

He’s about to walk away, and Enjolras knows he should stop him, should say something, but he can’t make his mouth move and his lungs feel like they’re collapsing in on themselves. All he can do is reach out and grab Grantaire’s wrist and in a small voice that isn’t familiar to him at all, say, “Stay.” A second passes. “Please.”

Grantaire turns around and looks at him. “What?”

It takes all of his energy to say it again. “Please stay.” If things are going to end between them, if they’ll never see each other again, Enjolras doesn’t want it to be this way. “I thought you hated me,” he says softly.

Grantaire, damn him, makes a grimacing smile. “Oh, I never hated you, Apollo. Never. I could never.”

“Then why are you so mean to me?” He feels like a child, stupid and afraid.

“I didn’t realize I was so mean until last night.”

“I said cruel things.”

Grantaire nods, loosens Enjolras’s grip on his wrist before turning it so that he’s holding his hand. “As if I haven’t?”

Enjolras’s breath stutters, and he’s on the verge of crying. “I’d care. Please don’t go. I’d care. I care. I care now. I’ve always cared. Don’t leave.” It feels like all the people he’s ever tried to impress in his life have left him. He doesn’t want Grantaire to leave too.

“What do you need? I’ll stay. I’ll do it.”

“I don’t know.” And it’s the truth. He doesn’t know what he needs, or even what he wants. At least not for himself. He tries not to dry heave a sob. “Just stay with me. Please.”

“It’d be easier to stay if you’d let me in.” And if that isn’t a metaphor for everything about them. Enjolras nods, steps aside and closes the door behind Grantaire when he comes into the suite. He tries not to panic, but it isn’t working. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” He trembles and it’s strange to see a statue so unsure of himself. “I’m sorry too.” He closes his eyes and tries to collect himself. “I haven’t been fair to you.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not. I’ll try to be better, but I can’t promise anything. I’m terrible.”

“It’s one of the things I love about you.”

“You don’t love me.” Enjolras swallows and looks anywhere but at Grantaire.

“I’ll prove it.” He licks his lips before leaning in towards Enjolras, before kissing him gently on the cheek, on the forehead, on the mouth. And it’s almost enough.


End file.
